


I Will Make You Hurt

by smts0529



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John Watson - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Relapsing, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-11 15:16:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7057759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smts0529/pseuds/smts0529
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We all know that Sherlock Holmes used to fancy drugs. It took him years to get off of the nasty habit that took so much from him- but something about how it made him feel pulls him right back in without a second thought.</p><p>[on hold until further comments received]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Every Day Is Exactly the Same

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first ever published Johnlock fic. Enjoy!

Sherlock was a bloody mess.  
There were drugs everywhere. 

Track marks that were once concealed on his forearm were now swollen and bloodied by scar tissues and repeated injections of various drugs of old habit. John had not seen him like this before. Sherlock was too weak and dazed to put up a fight of any kind- physical or verbal. His cell phone was almost dead, but had enough battery to send out maybe a handful of texts. 

Despite his witty thinking to try and cover up his evidence before Watson arrived, he still could not gather up the strength to stand up out of his bed. His hiding spots- in the skull that now lived in the refrigerator, and in various light fixtures in the flat, were to not easily be given up. Not to him, at least. He never did things by the easy way, and he was not about to give up his precious morphine unless something drastic were to happen. As far as Sherlock knew, John was not even aware of the new drug he picked up- cocaine. His 'old' friend, he liked to call it. 

It took him years to kick that and he knew that there would be immense disappointment to deal with when that secret was uncovered. The cigarettes too- he had some of those hidden under the mattress of the bed he slept on. He wanted so badly to pull one out and light it up, but the smell would be far too obvious. He sent out a text- just to see if John would even bother responding. He was probably busy.

 

I care for you, Watson. SH

Yes, I am aware of that. JW

I want you to know that, in case I were to meet my coup de grâce any time soon. SH

Sherlock, are you alright? Are you in danger right now? JW

Define danger. SH

Are you in any form of physical or emotional distress? Are you dying? JW

We will all die eventually, Watson. As for pain, it is well managed. SH

Where are you currently? JW

I am in my bedroom but the door is locked and you will not find the key. Do not even bother to try and 'help' me. SH

You bloody idiot. You’re high right now, aren’t you? Sherlock, I swear to god.. JW

I'm on my way to the flat now. Don't do anything else stupid. JW

John, I apologize. I needed to do it, you don't understand. SH

You are an addict, Sherlock. I do not care if you have been in recovery for days, months, or years. You don't need the drugs. You only think you do. JW

 

By now, Sherlock was too high to even respond in full sentences. He managed to somehow open the door and collapse onto his bed. He was pale and drenched in sweat from the paranoia and thoughts wracking his brain and invading his mind palace. All he could do was breathlessly mumble only a few works at a time. His room did in fact look like the storage locker at a crime scene. There were enough drugs to put down an army of men, and most of these drugs were pumping through his bloodstream. He took one last hit before he knew John were to arrive- it was the last one, so it couldn’t hurt him, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave comments if you would like for me to continue. Thanks!


	2. And All That Could Have Been

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John figures out exactly how deep Sherlock has dug his own grave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never would I have expected this many kind words or positive feedback! Thank you all so much. Here's another chapter for y'all!
> 
> [Update: Fic is on hold until more comments are received~]

John muttered to a nurse that there was an emergency back at 221B and that he had to leave immediately.

He left his place of work with inhuman speed and called for a taxi as soon as his cell phone had a bar of service. The badges with his name and area of expertise were still dangling from his work jacket, but that was the least of his concerns in the moment. All John wanted was to get to Sherlock to make sure the prick hadn't killed himself.

He did everything he could think of to make the poor cabbie drive even a mile faster. At one point, he even threatened to pull the cabbie’s teeth out and throw his body into boiling water.

After what seemed like hours, the cab arrived at 221B. John accidentally paid the cab driver much more than was necessary and made a run for the door to enter the apartment. He didn’t want to go in, but he had to. To be honest, he was very afraid of what he would find. Christ, he was probably overreacting.

Everything seemed to look normal when he ran in. Chairs were in their normal spots, kitchen table up to its usual level of organized chaos, and all knick-knacks seemed to be completely untouched.

The fridge had its usual abundance of experiments. He thought everything was normal. It looked to be fine, until he reached Sherlock’s bedroom. It wasn’t locked, but the door was jammed shut rather tightly for a man who said that he was not in any danger.

"Fucking hell," he muttered before banging on the detective’s bedroom door rather loudly. "Sherlock Holmes, you answer me this instant! Answer me! I’m coming in!"  
He kicked the door down in a rush of adrenaline and immediately wished he had not. The bedroom looked like a crime locker in a police station. There were bottles of morphine and needles- everywhere. You could see baggies of cocaine under his bed, mattress, and even in the delirious man’s hand.

Oh, was John furious. His blood was boiling and his head was burning with the flames of a thousand candles. He was so angry that it burned.

John rushed to his side, ignoring the needles and various array of drugs which littered the floor. He put on his professional doctor face and stood the detective up in his arms and walked him to the living room and gently helped him lay down on the sofa. He covered Sherlock with a small blanket and got up to go get a cold cloth from the bathroom.

John went into the kitchen and abruptly returned with the cloth, and slowly began to rub at Sherlock's pale and sweat covered face. Body temperature and heart rate were the two things that had to stay under control.

There was nothing he could do but wait or take him to the hospital if his training told him it was necessary. He hated waiting. There was no other choice at this time.

After seeing Sherlock like this, he wished he was dying too.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
In his mind, Sherlock was perfectly normal- like nothing had ever happened. 

Despite that, he was mumbling on and on about how he wasn't finished with the vial of drugs he was using. It was morphine to be exact, and lots of it.

It still did not fully register in his mind that John was in their flat, or even talking to him to begin with. He could hear the words that were being spoken, but in his typical fashion, he simply chose to not listen.

The drugs were causing him to be unable to respond. He had been using on a daily basis for over a month now, and poor Watson had no idea. He was in so much emotional pain. Holmes was not one to talk about his emotions, so he dealt with them the only way he knew how.

It seemed like hours had passed, when in reality it was only a few minutes.

Sherlock was back in a lab doing an experiment with a specimen of a human heart. He was in his bedroom, pacing around like a madman trying to solve one of the dozens of cases that were coming his way.

Then he was transported back to his childhood with his dog, Redbeard. This was all in his head of course, and yet he still mumbled and tried to get up despite something that felt like it was holding him down.

This something felt like the weight of a billion boulders on his wrists and ankles. Slowly but surely, he began to enter back into the real world and saw none other than John sitting in front of him, looking as pissed and angry as ever. All he could respond with were gasps as he was trying to catch his breath.

He knew there was going to be lots of explaining to do. Lots of how, what, when, where, why, and what if’s.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
John watched intently as Sherlock started to collect himself and his thoughts.

He kept track of every breath that the other took. He needed to make sure they weren’t too shallow or labored- that would be a sign that an ambulance would have to be called. Ambulance was the last thing that John wanted to summon. His blood was still boiling, but he couldn’t help but feel sad for the poor bloke.

"I want everything," he said after some time. 

"Every ounce, every gram of that morphine you dare to keep. I want it all on the table. Your brother will find someone to come and dispose of it after he has his words with you. If you even dare to lie to me, I'll call Anderson as well as others and we can do this the hard way, and we both know that is not what you want. I will call Anderson, Lestrade, and even the bloody Queen herself if I have to. I'm giving you the opportunity to give it all up and not rot in jail. If they find anything, I am going to sit back and let them take you to rot in cell for a very long time."

He meant every word he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I worked really hard on this chapter, so please leave comments, bookmarks, and kudos if you would like for me to continue!


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